


To the Ground

by atlas (cissysullivan)



Series: Season Gods [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, season gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 01:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4647888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissysullivan/pseuds/atlas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester's funeral</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Ground

It was the end of April in Minnesota and it hadn’t rained once in the three days since the death of John Winchester, so now it was pouring, buckets upon buckets of rain falling from the sky, drenching everything in sight. Everyone standing underneath the tents in the cemetery at John’s funeral were thankful they were under the tents rather than standing out in the open in the freezing torrential downpour.

Everyone except his son. Sam Winchester.

Sam wasn’t really listening to what the priest was saying. The man had been hired for the evening to put his father to rest. He’d never known John. Except for maybe the day Mary died. Maybe he’d been the priest who’d overseen her funeral as well. But even if he had, Sam knew full well John had never gone to church a day in his life and therefore the priest had never known him.

Turning from the priest to the world beyond the white plastic-covered tent canvas, Sam watched the rain fall and wished he were in that rather than sitting on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs that had been set up for the funeral. The rain was cold. He loved the cold. Maybe if he were drenched to the bone right now, he wouldn’t feel the emptiness that was slowly growing like a cancer in his chest.

It hadn’t been cancer that had killed John Winchester. Nor had it been a car accident, excessive drinking, or heart disease. John Winchester had died from something far more sinister and Sam, as well as the police and the woman who’d found John dead, didn’t know who or what it could have been.

Someone cleared their throat next to Sam and for a moment he turned away from the rain to see his older brother. He wasn’t even pretending to bow his head and listen solemnly to what the priest had to say. He was listening, but he was staring at the priest. Sam wrinkled his nose. Even at this distance, he could smell alcohol on his brother’s breath. He wondered how much he’d had before coming to the funeral. He wanted to say something to Dean, to ask him why he had to come to his own father’s funeral drunk, but that wasn’t a question he really needed answered. He knew the reason and also knew if he’d had enough alcohol, he would’ve had some too.

But that was one of the joys of being the Prince of Snow and Ice.

He couldn’t ever get drunk.

“…in the Lord’s name we pray. Amen,” the priest said.

Sam turned away from the rain and mumbled, “Amen” along with the rest of the crowd under the tent and waited for the priest to exist the small stage that had been erected beneath it before standing and making a beeline for the drinks at the back. He wasn’t typically a drinker. That was Dean’s forte. But he was thinking today was and exception. Even if the alcohol wouldn’t get him drunk in the end, the way it burned as it went down would help. If only slightly.

Purposefully not looking at anyone around him, Sam filled a shot glass that was sitting on the table with fireball whiskey and downed it all in one gulp. He took a couple more shots before he realized that he was hogging the table. He gave a tight-lipped smile to the woman that had come up to the table, looking at him warily, before stepping aside. It wouldn’t matter how much fireball he had. It wouldn’t affect him.

Now in another corner of the tent, he crossed his arms over his chest and quietly observed the other people who had come to the funeral.

He didn’t know most of them. He knew Jess, Dean, and Castiel, but he didn’t know any of the other people. His father had known them. They were part of the kingdom that Dean would be lording over now. They were also a part of the kingdom Castiel and Jess would be in charge of once their parents died or gave up the throne to them. Sam had always hated court politics. He’d done everything he could to steer clear of them, but being born into a royal family had made it almost impossible for him to avoid them completely. In the end, he’d had to come home and it looked like he’d gotten a house out of it.

A house where he could barricade himself until winter.

“Sam?”

The voice was soft. The hand on his arm was even softer. He thought he’d imagined it until he heard the voice again and the hand on his arm squeezed.

“Sam?”

He turned. There was Jess, standing in a black long-sleeved dress with black ballet flats to match. Even her nails were painted black and she wore black rose studs in her ears.

Sam forced a smile. “Hello, Jess,” he said, his voice just as soft as hers.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes. I’m fine.”

She sighed. “I wish you’d tell me the truth just once,” she said, her voice so soft it was barely discernable from a whisper.

Sam closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “Jess,” he said, “my father has just died.”

“Exactly,” she said, her tone sounding slightly desperate. “Let me help you.”

He shook his head, his eyes still closed. He opened them and looked at her. “You can’t.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away from her, his hands clenched into fists, tears swimming in his eyes.

Outside the rain continued to pour down, drenching and freezing the world. No longer caring what anyone thought, Sam pushed the canvas flap of the tent aside and walked out into the cold, wet world. He didn’t look back. He knew Jess was watching him.

Instantly he was soaked through to the bone. His new suit ruined, his new shoes ruined by the grass stains that he knew would only appear on them later when he couldn’t do anything about it anymore. But he hardly cared about any of this. He wouldn’t be using this suit again unless he had no other choice and these shoes pinched his feet anyway.

He stood in the downpour, rain dripping down off his nose and the ends of his hair. He stared at the ground, watching droplets of water bounce and curl on his shoes.

His hands were still clenched into fists. He looked up at the sky. He wanted to scream.

None of this was fair. None of this had ever been fair.

But that was how life was.

Life wasn’t fair. It never had been.

And it never would be.


End file.
